by Paul Kane
First published 2016 by Solaris
an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,
Riverside House, Osney Mead,
Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
www.solarisbooks.com
ISBN: 978-1-78618-034-6
“Introduction” copyright © 2016 Barbie Wilde.
Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell copyright © 2016 Paul Kane and Clive Barker.
Mythology and characters found in the novella The Hellbound Heart created by and copyright © 1986 Clive Barker.
Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and associated characters and places created by Arthur Conan Doyle.
Cover art by Chris Moore
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
SHERLOCK HOLMES
AND THE SERVANTS OF HELL
INTRODUCTION
by Barbie Wilde
WHEN PAUL KANE first approached me about writing an introduction to his new novel, Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell, my first thought was: “Egads! What kind of infernal ‘mashup’ is this?” Of course, my second thought was: “What a brilliant idea!”
When I was a little kid growing up in North America, my reading material was unconventional to say the least. Rather than the usual girlie stories, I raided my father’s library of fantasy, science fiction, horror and last – but certainly not least – the entire canon of Sherlock Holmes. I read and reread all 56 stories and the four novels countless times, until my poor Dad’s collection literally fell apart.
Fast forward to London, 1988. I’m introduced to the uniquely inventive world of Clive Barker when I’m cast as the Female Cenobite in his cult British horror movie, Hellbound: Hellraiser II, directed by Tony Randel.
Fast forward again to 2006. I’m contacted by award-winning author and (as coined by Clive himself) ‘Hellraiser expert’ Paul Kane to be interviewed for his extensively researched and seminal book, The Hellraiser Films and Their Legacy. During the interview process, Paul took a generous interest in my own writing, which tended towards the real life horror of serial killers and crime fiction.
After meeting Paul, I began to delve into his books and subsequently discovered the wickedly visceral delights of RED, The Gemini Factor, The Rainbow Man, Pain Cages, Lunar, Monsters, Blood RED and more.
In 2009, Paul and his wife Marie O’Regan asked me to contribute a Female Cenobite story (‘Sister Cilice’) to their Hellbound Hearts anthology, which kick-started my career in writing horror. All the stories in the antho were based on the mythology created by Clive in his novella, The Hellbound Heart, the basis for the Hellraiser films franchise.
Well, I think the above establishes my credentials as not only a Holmes fanatic, but as a Hellraiser cognoscenti as well. So what did I think of Paul’s “infernal mash-up” of Holmes and Hellraiser? As I certainly don’t want to dangle too many spoilers in front of those eager readers out there, all I will say is what you have before you is a deliciously dark tale set in a demimonde of nineteenth-century London that bestrides not only the familiar and foggy Holmesian metropolis, but also the shadowy and perverse conurbation simmering beneath a Victorian world of frock coats, bustles and hansom cabs.
Paul masterfully creates an intricate puzzle(box) of crime, mysterious disappearances and the supernatural that initially confounds the greatest fictional detective of all time. However, Holmes, who had previously touched the darkness of the abyss at the Reichenbach Falls and survived, bravely decides to confront the diabolical challenge head on.
On this perilous journey, Holmes – accompanied by the ever-faithful Watson – encounters a new and powerful legion of Cenobites for a nail-biting showdown that will have you hanging on for dear life.
If you’re a Holmes and Watson fan, you’ll love this book. If you’re an admirer of Clive Barker’s Hellraiser mythology of labyrinths, Cenobites and the exploration of the ultimate in sensual suffering, you’ll also love this book. If you like vivid, imaginative and muscular writing, then, hell, you’ll adore this book.
So, no more teasing. The game is afoot! Please find following, for your reading delectation, Paul Kane’s Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell.
Barbie Wilde
Actress (Hellbound: Hellraiser II, Death Wish 3)
and Author (The Venus Complex, Voices of the Damned)
PROLOGUE
THE BOX WAS full of possibilities; full of answers to questions he didn’t even know he’d asked. It was a puzzle, yes, but so much more than that. The solving of this would bring forth not only solutions, but resolutions. It would provide him with the knowledge he’d been seeking all this time. And he had to see, he had to know...
The room he dwelled in was sparse. The walls bare, the floorboards dirty and littered with splinters. Such things did not trouble him. It was private; what more could he ask of the place? It did not even possess one solitary window, so there was no view to distract him – not that it would have done anyway. There was nothing outside to interest him that day; nothing else existed but the box. So there he sat cross-legged, stripped to the waist, body slick with sweat from his labours. The only light in the room emanated from the candles he’d arranged around himself, which caught the intricate golden panelling on the six sides of the box – broken up only by the obsidian blackness of the lacquered surface beneath – as it was turned over and over in his hands.
He had lost track of time in his quest to open the box. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he knew he had been working for hours; maybe even days. He felt neither hungry nor thirsty, however. His efforts, though they had yielded nought thus far, were sustenance enough.
Just when he thought he had it, the key to getting inside would – quite literally – slip through his fingers and he would have to start over again. It would all be worth it, he reminded himself. No more mystery, just enlightenment. Was that not worth however long it would take? Frustration nagged at him, though. On several occasions he had almost thrown the thing across the length of the room, hoping it would smash to pieces against the wall. Only the thought of what awaited him stayed his hand. But surely it should not be so difficult, if one were willing. If one had the... desire to open the box.
Was that it? Was that what he was lacking? The desire?
No – he wanted, needed this, more than he had ever craved anything in his entire life. It was a strange feeling, but the solving of the box was now the most important thing in the world to him, replacing all other concerns. All other obsessions. If only he could –
He cursed, something he was not generally inclined to do. The word and his voice sounded alien as it echoed off the walls. Others had achieved this, so why not he? What did they possess that he did not?
His eyes narrowed, tongue moistening his dry, cracked lips, and he concentrated once more. One last chance, that was all he would give the damned thing. One more opportunity. But he knew the threats were hollow. He would give the box all the time it deserved, all the attention he could muster. If it took until the end of time itself, he would sit here, and he would trace the lines of the cube, fingertips searching, ever searching.
He wiped first one hand on his trouser leg, then the other. Then he gave a dete
rmined nod and set to work again.
So intent was he on solving the puzzle that he did not notice the sound of the bell. A distant chiming at first, as if a church was calling the faithful to worship. He was worshipping at an altogether different altar. And he would give all the praise he could if only he might fathom its secrets. The solving was the first, and possibly most important, part. From that would come everything else, he just knew it.
Hold on to that thought, he told himself. It will carry you through to victory. Sure enough, just when he was absently considering giving up again, there was an audible click...
A smile broke across his face; more of a grin actually. This was it, the first step. Buoyed by his small success, his fingers worked harder, his eyes staring more intently at the ornamental shapes that were almost floating in front of him, swimming in his vision. He blinked, refocussed. Now was not the time to grow complacent, not when he was so near. He fought to control his excitement, slowing his breathing.
Another click... Then something whirring, a mechanism of some kind. Yes, keep going, he told himself, you’re almost there! Closer than he ever had been since all this began, closer than –
A further click. And the sound of the tolling bell grew louder, not that he registered this fact. He was too energised by his triumph. So, imagine his disappointment when the clicks ceased. He waited for something else to happen... but it did not.
His fingers worked again, yet still there were no more noises from inside. Was the mechanism broken? He shook the box, then immediately regretted it. That could break the thing, if it were not broken already.
To have come this far, to have been given hope – only to have it snatched away from you... Well, it was torture: plain and simple.
He had managed to convince himself so utterly nothing else was going to happen that when the next click came he started and the box almost fell through fingers dripping with sweat. Luckily, he did not need them for the next stage of the box’s transformation. For, now it was beyond a certain point, it took over, as he had always hoped it might. One of the corners turned, at a seemingly impossible angle. Then it rose, lifting itself and twisting.
At the same time there was movement on its opposite face, a wheel rotating. But that was not the end of it. More movement, above and below, tickling his palm, tiny changes to the box that created another, very different and less ordinary-looking object (not that the box had been mundane or commonplace before). With every twist and turn, he fancied he saw something inside, reflecting off the polished blacks and golds. Something at once spectacular, but more than a little terrifying. Something old, something unique.
A glimpse of another realm.
The sound of the bell had now been replaced by that of a tinkling tune played by the box itself. He marvelled at this, for he had not realised it was musical in nature. The rhythm was relaxed, at odds with the frantic motions of the box.
Then, though he did not feel any wind – and how could there be in here, inside? – the candles blew out. All of them, all at once. Yet he could still see. Light was filtering in from somewhere, cool shafts of cerulean blue. The room was shaking so hard he thought the walls might collapse. Indeed, the wall behind him was being torn apart. He could hear the wrenching of it, hear the footfalls of the figures as they entered, approached.
It was then, and only then, that Sherlock Holmes finally turned around.
PART ONE
Dr John Watson
CHAPTER ONE
Testing the Limits
LOOKING BACK UPON my career – or perhaps I should say careers, as I have had four worthy of mention (first doctor, then soldier, then investigator and author) – and indeed my whole life, I find there have been many occurrences of note. One such incident led directly to the taking up of two of those aforementioned occupations; callings that have become perhaps more important to me even than the profession for which I trained all those years ago, receiving my medical degree from the University of London, before serving as staff surgeon at St Bartholomew’s (I suspect in part because even with all that training and experience I was still unable to save my beloved Mary). That incident was, of course, being introduced to my friend and companion of so many years, the world’s greatest detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes.
I can still remember the day I first met him, not knowing at all what to make of the fellow. Abrupt yet brilliant, with dark, slicked-back hair and such an intense gaze it felt like he was seeing right into the heart of you, seeing your very soul. He gripped my hand in that chemical laboratory with a strength I would hardly have credited the man possessed. I had been warned by my friend Stamford that I might not get on with Holmes, but right from the very start – during that conversation about haemoglobin, and the importance of blood (something that would take on even greater significance during the events I am reluctantly about to set down) – we had a connection. I felt it, and I like to think in his own way Holmes did as well.
It would be a meeting that saw me moving in to 221b Baker Street to share lodgings with him, whereupon I witnessed various visitors coming and going, including a distinctive Jewish peddler and a railway porter. Not long afterwards, I was drawn more fully into his world as we worked on our first cases together. It was a world I was at once excited by and eager to experience all the more. In time, I would begin to transfer my notes on the cases into stories – which Holmes would very often dismiss due to my embellishments, my use of what he called ‘colour and life,’ not to mention the more romanticised elements of the tales. More than once he chastened me for not keeping to the facts, for not simply presenting the instalments as aloof studies – something that I could never have done, because they involved people, they involved feelings and emotions; spheres of life that Holmes struggled with and could never fully understand. But there were more than enough clinical essays by the man himself on everything from tattoos to tobacco smoke, which he would often draw my attention to. What I was trying to do was present our exploits in a way that could be understood and – dare I say it – even enjoyed by the common man.
I have to admit, and I can do so honestly here, that in my pursuit of these literary goals I did embroider things a little. Something that became almost a necessity after Holmes’ untimely –
But I have said too much already – and far too early. Suffice to say, it was not unknown for me to use ‘artistic licence’ in my detailing of our adventures, even including small jokes that I never for once thought would be taken seriously; a throwaway line about a giant rat, for example – something that did not exist, or that we certainly never encountered if it did. I wrote in that story, which detailed the debunking of the notion of a vampire in Sussex, that Holmes had said the world was not yet prepared for such tales. Again, this was not so much something the detective said as my own thoughts on other singular and more disturbing subjects.
Indeed, it took me some time to actually bring myself to write about particular cases: the terrifying Baskerville Hound, for one, a creature that I did not need to exaggerate about. Holmes’ ‘death,’ as well – another pivotal occurrence in my life and work, something that so profoundly affected me it caused in the writing up of them to mistakenly set two of the entries in the period of those wilderness years that have come to be known as ‘The Great Hiatus’; as if the very act of doing so would bring Holmes back to life. And, who knows, perhaps that was the case, because he did return to me, did he not? Returned with a story that was so fanciful I was hesitant to chronicle it at first for fear that, although true, it would be horribly derided.
Reality, fantasy. Truth, lies. The line between them is paper-thin. I have had the good fortune – or misfortune, depending on how you look at it – to live long enough to see Holmes make appearances on the silver screen, the most recent of which depict me as some sort of bumbling buffoon rather than reflecting the reality of the situation. I suppose I should be grateful that I appeared at all! And I know, for I left hints myself of so many uncollected stories, that others will take
up the baton in years to come and continue to write about our adventures; some of which will be more outlandish and unbelievable than I ever could have imagined. I foresee a time when the fictional character of Holmes will time travel, just like H.G. Wells’ character in his machine; when he will battle dinosaurs and alien creatures; when he will be just as at home in a future setting in the next century as he was in the fog-filled streets of nineteenth-century London. All this will come to pass, I am sure. But the truth will remain the truth.
Just as I was reluctant to put pen to paper when it came to chronicling some of our tales from the past, I have remained so about this tale for the longest of times. Not simply because I thought it might not be believed – such is the theme of the account – but also because I feared it might alter the way people saw Holmes. Actually, I knew it would change the way they perceived him; how could it not? It would also make them question what they knew about me, for do they not say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions? No matter how my friend and I arrived at some of our decisions, or the reasoning behind them, the results were still the same; the brush with darkness that cannot be denied. Therefore, although I am sharing my recollections of events – or at least those I was privy to – here, I cannot allow them to ever be published. In fact, the writings of this secret journal, once finished, will be destroyed; burned, actually, as would seem fitting. I have made arrangements for this to be so.
But, while I am still of sound mind, I will do what I do – yes, what I do best, for as accomplished as I like to think I have been in those other walks of life, I still regard this as the thing I put both my heart and soul into. And I shall do so again within these pages while I am still able.